Beginnings
by Complicity
Summary: "Raised voices dust the atmosphere and bring all other sounds and senses together for one almighty entrance; One almighty beginning." Two parter. Jac Naylor.
1. Chapter 1

**Beginnings.**

**A/N. Hi guys, here's another two parter for you! Bit of a new angle I think so I'd love to hear your opinions. Got to say I hit struggletown trying to induce empathy for one particular character so I'd love to know if it worked?! Part 2 in the next few days, it's almost finished. XX**

**Part 1.**

Rain. Relentless, drenching, punctuated by cracks of bright white light and rumbles of threatening thunder. Buffets of wind that take your breath away and leave you strangled. Screams. Weighty moaning cries of agony, then the squeal of newborn life. Phones ringing, rubber shoes on linoleum, volatile tempers and tears of joy and tragedy. Raised voices, dusting the atmosphere and bringing all these sounds and senses together for one almighty entrance; One almighty beginning.

* * *

It's a simple birth. A stout midwife catches the newborn with strong arms and pursed lips as she slithers from her mother, who gives one last groan of horror. The baby has a healthy pink hue, a slick of red hair, and a welcoming squeal. Her mother slumps back against the pillows, shrinking away from what's just happened and numbed to the fact that it could possibly be over; That it would ever be over. The midwife's gaze flicks up to the solitary figure in the bed, her eyes stern, as she wraps the bundle in a blanket and takes it away to be cleaned up.

"Less of the histrionics dear, it'll do you no good at all. You have a healthy little girl." The woman in the bed only whimpers, which makes the midwife feel uneasy. She's had a hell of a night shift and her feet ache, her hair's pulled back a little too tightly and the rampant storm that rumbles on outside adds a tense volatility to the ward. Babies don't like thunder and lightning, and in April! Of all things. She puts her hands on her hips and looks her patient up and down; It's rather unusual after all. It's a girl in the bed, she's no more than seventeen, and the labour has been long. She's been writhing in agony with wild bambi eyes, a child in an adult's world, too timid to ask for painkillers and confused, mortified by the doctor's probing hands. Now she lies prone on her back, sobbing as if she's lost the world, trembling from the aftershocks of the ordeal she hadn't been prepared for and the pain nobody bothered to explain was coming. The midwife leaves it at that, a healthy baby plopped into a cot by its Mother's side, and heads out of the room towards the area where the relatives wait.

The girl's Father sits on a wooden bench with a flat gaze, his posture as stiff as his brown suit. His jaw is fixed, firm, mortified by yet accustomed to the shame of his position.

"Mr Burrows?"

"Yes Nurse."

"Your daughter has delivered a healthy girl."

"I see. Will she be in a fit state for visitors tonight, or shall I return in the morning?" The midwife considers this for a minute, before deciding with certainty that no good can come from the girl's father seeing her in such a shameful state of distress.

"Visiting hours start at 9am sharp."

"Thankyou Nurse. Goodnight."

The year is 1975. Paula Burrows is tripping over the edge of the unknown. Her own infancy, and childhood, had been encased by the stench of old fashioned repression. The sallow secret of her own Mother's mental illness hangs around her neck like a lead weight, one that she's sure her father never separated from his daughter's birth, which marked the beginning of his wife's spiralling psychosis. Now she's seventeen, and prising herself out of his clutches one controversial action at a time. She's desperate to be brainwashed by the world's idea of freedom; Feminism, free love, choices. She doesn't see her own immaturity, she can't tell that she's binding herself back into a new set of duties and responsibilities. For Paula, everything is perfect until the first cramp over dinner on the 19th April. It strikes her so sharply that she gasps aloud, letting cutlery tumble to the floor at her feet. It rips into her insides and makes her scream aloud, terrified, wondering why her Father's so serene in the face of her debilitating agony.

The hate strikes her with the most surprise. It's that, and perhaps the shock, that doesn't dissipate calmly in the wake of the birth. The hate resonates in waves over her trembling frame, a feeling so strong that it burns her to the core. It's so tightly associated with this child they've left her with, the thing that caused all the awful pain and fear. The child is the reason she's alone in this cold hospital room that smells of carbolic, far away from her Father's comforting beige existence. Paula starts to cry.

* * *

1989.

Hate is, in so many ways, an easy emotion. It's simple and to the point. It requires no apology or introduction. With hate there is no responsibility, nothing to tug at your insides and cause that deep wracking pain that makes you shudder and tremble and brim with regret.

Hate is how Jac Naylor faces down the beginning of every unknown. She has a denim holdall with a rip in the corner that she's fixed with a bit of twine that she lifted from a guardian's shed. She walks through whichever door they tell her to and she doesn't bother with the pleasantries. She wants to keep the boundaries clear; These shitty arrangements are all a transaction. This is the state's duty to provide a guardian for a minor, and nothing to do with goodwill or real affection. For that reason she won't smile, she won't pander to the repugnant illusion which the adults seem to find so important.

* * *

2013.

Snow. It blankets the ground and fills the atmosphere, dampening the harsh city noises and lifting the tungsten hue of the streetlights so that every dark corner opens up a little. It's serene, determined, calming the landscape and adding a soft jingle of magic for streets of celebrations. It's New Years Eve. Jac stares out at the city through a venetian blind in her living room, always awed by this sort of weather and feeling an incredible sense of peace that goes sharply against her instinct; It's the polar opposite of how she should be feeling in this moment, but she can't shake it. She has trust and faith in her position and the support network around her even though she knows it's completely misguided. In this moment the universe has transpired against her and this evening has little hope of playing out smoothly.

Jac has one hand on her bump, one hand clutching her wristwatch, and she calmly times the gaps between the moments her abdomen contracts and twists internally, preparing itself ever more vigorously for what she knows will happen tonight. The next cramp, the second one in 10 minutes, causes her to emit an involuntary squeal. She drops the watch and lets the pain send her to the ground with a thump whilst her chest heaves, her breath catching up with her body. She shouldn't have insisted so furiously on being left alone this evening. She shouldn't have dropped her now defunct iphone on the stone floor of the apartment's lobby. She should have known that her child would pick a momentous date like this to make its first appearance. She should be in a far more acute stage of panic when she knows she'll never be able to find a taxi, especially not with six inches of fresh snow dusting the pavements. She probably shouldn't be smiling, rubbing fond circles over her bump and feeling ready; Mentally prepared and excited for whatever tonight will bring.

At around 11pm she is saved, sealing her faith in the support network that pulls through for her even when she didn't ask it to. It feels surreal, as if they've made a mistake and are meant to be caring about somebody else. There's a knock at the door, the distinctive rap of her increasingly full time lodger. She doesn't answer because she never does anymore. She's aware she may be conditioning him to knock only as a courtesy and the time that elapses between his tap and the use of his own key is decreasing by the day. However the first time she didn't answer, because she was in the shower, he'd taken it upon himself to force the lock and all but barrel straight into the bathroom with her, wild eyed and blaming panic for his misjudgement. On balance, she's decided it's safer if she teaches him to use his own key.

"Jac?" He calls from the hallway as he shrugs his coat off. She remains silent on the sofa, envisaging the puddle he's creating on the doormat as he discards his snowy attire. "I bought some Bollinger for midnight!" He puts his head around the door to the living room with a grin, dispensing with an explanation for his unexpected presence. Apparently he's decided that he's seeing the New Year in with his new family, however dysfunctional. This is why he doesn't notice her unusual flush, and the way her left hand grips her bump whilst her right has a white knuckled fist full of sofa cushion. "I figure one glass, you know one of those wee bubbly glasses, will be alright won't it?"

"How much have you had to drink?" She questions as he disappears into the kitchen to hunt for glassware.

"Not a drop." He admits sheepishly. She smirks, never more grateful to his over caution. The last time she saw him she'd ordered that he go out and get drunk before she strangles him. She can't remember her exact words, but she'd muttered something along the lines of, 'rowdy thuggish Hogmanay that you so enjoy,' and shouted, 'Go!' so viciously that he had to oblige.

"Well that's good." She continues calmly as he reappears with two glasses and starts to fiddle with the cork. "Because my waters broke ten minutes ago."

There's a crack, the instantaneous melody of smashing glass, a pop and a fizz as the heavy bottle takes out her glass coffee table with gusto. She marvels at how Champagne even sounds celebratory when dropped, and creating an incredible mess of her living room. Jonny looks like he's lost the power to comprehend anything at all.

* * *

1975.

The stout midwife yawns and catches a moment of peace in the corridor. She slips her feet from her stiff leather shoes and lifts each in turn, giving them a quick rub with her right hand. She steals this moment for herself before heading back into the room to conduct the hourly obs on the young girl and her newborn. She doesn't like dealing with this patient. The room is quiet, sallow, so full of gloom in the midst of a place that's full of life. Since the birth, the baby has been squirming good naturedly in the cot, patiently waiting for its mother's touch. It's screams, however, have only been abated by the staff when they feel the noise is too much, coaxing the child in their clinical grasps and chiding the young Mother for not doing what she's supposed to.

"It's no good crying Paula. You've got a responsibility now." The midwife steels herself for another stern exchange and pushes the door open quietly. She hopes the girl will be asleep, at least then she won't have to endure the strange way that she lies in the bed, staring at the ceiling with a hollow gaze. She isn't asleep. She isn't staring at the ceiling either. The midwife lets the door slap shut again as she remains rooted to the spot. The bundle is wriggling in the cot, gurgling to itself. The bundle's Mother is nowhere to be seen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Beginnings.**

**Thankyou all so much for the reviews to this! I love them. & I love to hear what you think. Here's the conclusion, enjoy. X**

**Part 2.**

1975.

The rain is assaulting. It's relentless and it falls in great big tropical pelts that burn her tender skin and chill her core all at once. Paula shudders and trembles under its pressure, her long thick locks are lank and heavy with its weight. Somehow, though, she's comforted by its anonymity, the way it dampens her into insignificance by disguising the tap of her shoes on the pavement and hiding her enduring sobs.

Paula aches. She feels wretched. Her head is pounding and her limbs are like lead, it's all she can do to drag herself slowly against the punishing wind and blink furiously against fresh torrents of rain that lodge in her eyelashes. The pain in her abdomen radiates like an orb from her vagina, which feels hot and sore and so far away from being capable of the reactive antics that got her into this mess to start with. There's a new flash of fear and she wonders if she'll ever be capable of that kind of pleasure again. She knows that she hates Men, and their nonchalant assurances, and their bloody minded yet inexperienced expectation of her to sit back and deal with this. She thinks of her Father's indifference, and the Gynaecologist's awful moustache that turned his face of concentration into an evil smile. She sobs louder and feels herself wobble, then slithers into a bench, grateful for its placement. Her thighs feel hot and sticky and she wonders what she'll find when she undresses, mortified all over again to consider her lack of control over those particular muscles.

Paula has to be rational. That goes against the grain of her trembling muscles and the pain that keeps her rooted to the bench. It conflicts with the spinning sensation that makes her feel sick, but still she's sure that she has to think logically. To lose her rationale would put her at risk of turning into her own Mother, the woman who went mad after childbirth, as if a switch had been flicked inside of her and Paula's very existence had sucked a vital part of her away forever. Paula had always found that idea ridiculous, kicking back against the blame that her Father unintentionally heaps on her shoulders. Throughout her own pregnancy everything had seemed okay, easy, fun even. Her stomach had swelled, her Father had stiffened more each day and her friends had been fascinated. Strangers had been kind, interested, forgiving and likely to donate her their seat on the bus. Paula shudders as she thinks of it, and relives her naivety, frightened of her own inability to get her head around the horror that the night beheld. She prays that she won't be her own Mother, and that the spinning sensation in her head will stop and everything will make sense again. She still can't shake the hate of the screaming creature they call her daughter. She knows that she'll have to pretend to, at least for now. If they all think she's normal then everything will be okay.

* * *

2013.

Jonny hears the crash before he registers that he's dropped the bottle. For a moment he thinks he's been glassed over the back of the head by reality. It's happening. Jac is squirming awkwardly on the sofa and he looks at his hands, only then noticing the carnage he's caused and cursing under his breath. He looks up at her and winces guiltily. She looks excruciatingly calm, and unsurprised by his blithering reaction.

"Come on then." She goads with a raised eyebrow. "Or are you just going to stand there whilst I spawn on the sofa?" He makes a kind of choked explanation in place of real words, and springs to her side.

"Okay, right. Car. Bag. Where's the bag? Do I call ahead? Where's your phone? Can you stand up? Lean on me. How often are the contractions? Hang on, where's my car key?"

"Jonny, shut up." And he does because usually, and increasingly so, she's right. "Breathe!" She adds, and he remembers her sarcastic garb about that particular portion of the antenatal classes being designed for jumpy incontinent Dads to be. He'd rolled his eyes at the time, but now he takes a deep gulp of air, grateful for her instruction.

"Lean on me." He repeats more softly, taking control of himself as he helps her stand. He stumbles a bit, forever underestimating her, and surprised by how literally she takes his command. He can't deny that he's scared as he wraps an arm around her waist and she clings to him in turn. They carefully sidestep the broken glass and she straightens up as they reach the door and the contraction passes.

"Stop panicking." She orders, as he rummages through his discarded coat for the keys. She sounds so calm, how the hell does she sound so calm?!

"Yes!" He exclaims as he clutches the keys, then throws her bag over his shoulder. "Got everything. We're ready. Are we ready?"

"I'm ready. Put your coat on, you idiot, it's freezing out there." She seems to be enjoying this, and he supposes he should be thankful. He's tried to imagine Jac in labour a hundred times and his mind usually conjures up a whole wealth of horror stories. On balance, mocking his nervousness is probably letting him off quite lightly. Then she doubles over again and he lunges forward, crouching in front of her and taking the weight of her arms with his.

"Three in ten." She hisses. "Definitely time to go."

They make slow progress down to the car, staggering together as one, and she drags him down to let her sit twice on the stairs as she's hit by increasingly frequent waves of agony.

"Are you alright?" He breathes at one point, when she makes a kind of squeak and looks like she might vomit or faint. She only shoots him a withering glare that suggests she'd say, 'what do you think?' if she had the energy. Once they're outside he uses his body to shield her against the worst of the snowfall, lifting his jacket up over her head, which rests against his shoulder. He drives like an eighteen year old, half desperate to get to the hospital and half terrified over the perils of the icy roads. He's acutely aware of how important his passengers are, and experiencing a heightened protective instinct that feels like it might do more harm than good.

"Shall I drive?" She snaps between pants, as he stalls at a junction.

"Hilarious." He responds in a slightly prickly tone, and she looks a bit guilty then, perhaps blaming herself a little for rattling him. He shoots her a glance every ten seconds or so, unable to keep his eyes off her as if she has some kind of imminent expiry date. "How did you know I'd come back?" He manages eventually, as even through the worst of the pains that contort her face in agony and cause her to grip the dashboard he can see that she's counting silently to herself. She's breathing deeply and concentrating on keeping herself calm. Her eyes are alight but it certainly isn't with fear.

"I didn't."

"Weren't you scared?"

"No." She doesn't sound the least bit indignant. He studies her features closely. In fact, she sounds as honest as he's ever heard her sound.

"Makes one of us." He mumbles in awe, never more grateful to see the looming lights of the hospital entrance through the increasingly thick blizzard.

"You'll be fine." She tells him, with a hint of something between irony and sarcasm. He parks illegally and throws a sign from the glove box onto the dashboard, earning himself a raised eyebrow from Jac; It's an official NHS parking waiver that he and Mo use when travelling to collect and assess a heart in a hurry. She doesn't argue though, and even waits for him to dash to her side of the car and help her climb out. Their progress into the hospital and up to maternity is even more haphazard than their journey down the stairs at the flat. He finds himself staggering, taking more of her weight with every step, and she seems to be finding it increasingly difficult to put one foot in front of the other in a straight line.

"Are you alright?" He tries again eventually.

"What?" She's eternally unimpressed by the futile question, so he rolls his eyes and drops it. The entrance to Maternity can't come soon enough, and when it finally does he deposits her up against the desk and stretches out his shoulders.

"Jac Naylor, she's in labour." Jonny wearily states at the woman on the reception desk, drawing her attention up from her paperwork.

"Take a seat."

"But we only just,"

"Not you!" The midwife barks, cutting him off and starting to scramble around the desk to Jac's side. He looks at her and his heart leaps, she's still panting rhythmically but the colour has drained from her cheeks and sure enough, she looks up to meet his gaze before her legs buckle and he just about manages to catch her before she hits the deck, sliding onto his knees beside her.

"Jac?!" Her body is slumped against his and he shakes her as hard as he dares. How did he fail to notice this? How did he fail to spot something that the midwife snapped up in an instant? "Help her." He whimpers, his hand moving to her neck for a pulse, and they're swarmed by medical personnel.

"Get her onto the trolley. Right, straight to Bay 4 please I need to examine her. Track down the notes!" Jonny becomes the bystander as they all snap into action, flooded with relief when she opens her eyes again as they lay her flat. She reaches out and he grabs her hand for the briefest of moments before the trolley is wheeled away and he's left alone in reception with his racing heart. He looks at his shoes, and he thinks he might stop breathing altogether when he spots the smeared pool of blood on the floor. By the time he has his act together enough to make a beeline for her side a midwife is blocking his entrance to Bay 4.

"The Doctor needs to assess her condition sir. I'm sorry, but you need to wait here."

"That's my baby in there!"

"It won't be long." There's no point in arguing, so he kicks a drinks machine instead. His heart feels as if it's dislodged itself and started creeping up his throat. A part of him, the rational professional part, thinks that's too much blood to lose for everything to be okay. He closes his eyes and pushes that idea firmly out of his head.

Ten minutes pass before a young doctor emerges from Bay 4 and gives him a wan smile. Jonny instantly decides it's good that the Consultant doesn't need to speak to him personally, then that it's bad because the Consultant hasn't left Jac's side.

"What's happening?" He snaps in a tone that he'll feel guilty about later.

"There has been a complication. The placenta is lying lower in the womb than the latest scans suggested, and the latter stages of dilation have caused a tear. That's the source of the bleed." Jonny balks, because he's read up on this. They've been monitoring her low lying placenta for months, and eventually Mr T cleared her as safe to deliver naturally. Mr T, who Jonny now wants to punch because perhaps Jac goaded him into that decision? The doctor looks at him with sympathetic eyes and he steadies himself against the wall.

"Haemorrhage." He quotes at the doctor. "Major risk to Mother and Baby, right?"

"The labour is very progressed which is a good sign, the faster the delivery the safer they both are at this stage."

"No, she needs a Caesarian. Surely. She could bleed out." He hears himself arguing and he isn't sure why, because who the hell is he to question them, but he won't leave any option unconsidered.

"I'm afraid the labour is too far progressed for that. Like I said, Jonny, it's a good sign. You can come and be with them both." His legs won't work, not until there's an arm around his waist that guides him into the room. The first thing he sees is the blood, staining the sheets and pooling on the floor. Then there's the monitor, displaying a BP that's steadily decreasing, sealing the reality that time is running out. The Consultant looks frantic, and above all he knows it's never good when a Consultant looks frantic.

"Okay Jac, you're fully dilated but I'm afraid I'm going to need to hurry this along. You might feel some more discomfort. I still need you to try and push." Her head is back against the pillows and she looks confused. Jonny wants to shove the Gynaecologist away from her as he hears the man's urgently barked words and sees a flash of his prepared utensils, but he knows that's completely irrational. She nods gently and blinks, moaning as another contraction piques, drawing Jonny instinctively to her side.

"It'll be fine." She whispers as he leans into her, taking her whole arm in his. Her tone tells him that he must look terrified, and he tries his best to smile for her. "Mmhh." She closes her eyes and gasps, as great a reaction as is possible in her weakened state. Jonny swings around, keeping hold of her as he hears the first newborn cry, the first sound that takes his breath away. He's dumb to the monitors around him that whir into overdrive, until somebody prises her limp hand from his grasp. That's when he realises she's unconscious again.

"Shit."

"BP's falling, there's another bleed. Where are those units? Another set of clotting factors please." Jonny isn't sure how long this lasts. Minutes maybe, or perhaps just seconds. He's rooted to the spot and his own blood pounds in his ears. Tears of shock obscure his vision and everything blurs into the growing crimson stain on the sheets. He stumbles back and steadies himself against a wall, almost gasping for breath himself as the urgency in the room starts to abate.

"She's stabilizing. Tell theatre to stand down. Jac, Jac? Welcome back. You have a little girl."

Just like that, as quickly as it had struck every muscle in his body and sent a forgotten bottle of champagne to the floor, the adrenaline dissipates and his shoulders sag. A lethargy of content sweeps over his body and suddenly he knows exactly what to do again. Jonny tumbles back to her side and slides his forearm under her shoulders as she strains to see the source of infant noise. Words are spoken in murmurs, coaxing her to take it easy, introducing the new parents to their tightly wrapped bundle, but he'll never remember any of them specifically. What he will always remember is Jac's weight against his shoulder as he helps her sit up a little. The way the midwife places their daughter on her chest and moves Jonny's other arm to support her where Jac is only strong enough to softly stroke her new skin. Most of all Jonny will remember her smile and surprised little laugh as they lay eyes on their baby, together, for the first time.

It's the part of the story that he'll always linger on for longest with every retelling. In time it becomes a feature, and he'll announce that she must have been delirious because nobody should be that pleased when they're being stitched back together by a Gynaecologist. Then she'll swat him and scowl, making some quip about pain thresholds. In truth, it'll just always be the greatest moment in his life. Nothing has a hope of topping it.

* * *

1975.

"The baby is just this way, Mr Burrows." The nurse has an apologetic tone as she leads the man into the room with the solitary cot. It's not every day that the Maternity department unintentionally loses a minor. As mid morning approaches it looks increasingly likely that Paula Burrows doesn't intend to return.

Henry is mute as he approaches the cot. First, he peers down at the forlorn little creature. Her eyes are open and she's wriggling her limbs around beneath the carefully wrapped cocoon of blanket. Her arms reach out in reaction to the presence and she makes a mumbling gurgle, nonplussed by a ball of spit that erupts from between her tiny lips and slides onto her chin. Henry smiles in spite of himself. He feels a raw ache in his chest as if he might crumble at the sight of her tiny, perfect little form. Of course he can't do that because she isn't his, and no matter where Paula is now, at some point she will have to return and take her responsibility seriously. Pandering to his daughter's tantrum will not help anybody, and he is determined that she will do her duty as a Mother. He is determined that a child will not strike down another woman in this family. A lump forms in his throat and, to steady his shaking hands, he reaches down into the cot and lifts the baby up with a strong grip around her chest, under her armpits. One hand gently supports her head. He holds her at arms length for a minute, looking her up and down. She's inherited the trademark red hair, and she wriggles inquisitively, probably surprised to find herself at the source of any kind of attention, that which has been withheld since the birth. Henry sighs and moves her within his grasp, cradling her properly.

"Jacqueline." He announces, aware that the nurse is still present behind him. "She'll be called Jacqueline, after her Grandmother." The nurse clears her throat, taking his words as confirmation that he'll accept responsibility for this baby and care services need not be formally alerted just yet.

"The Paediatrician is happy to discharge her. You can take Jacqueline home, Mr Burrows." He turns to see the collection of things she's holding. A modest bag of Paula's that contains the prepared essentials, two hospital issue reusable nappies and a fastener. She also proffers a bottle which is half full. "She's a good feeder." The nurse assures him. A well behaved baby all round, seems to be the general impression, and Henry wonders how long that will last now that she's being released into the carnage of his mortifyingly incapable family.

This is not the first time he's found himself in this position. Seventeen years ago he was holding his own daughter for the first time. He was nervous with the precious cargo in his ill prepared grip, arms stiff and unyielding. She'd known, and she'd wriggled and cried all the way to the car. His wife had followed him slowly, vacant and scowling, trembling in a way that reminded him of shell shocked soldiers. At the time he'd been mildly concerned, and that feeling grew and grew until it became the burden he now holds with him. His wife lives in an institute that he no longer visits. She has been in a catatonic state for over a decade, and he sometimes wonders if that's all down to the birth and the depression that traumatised her, or perhaps the electric shock therapy they put her through after she tried to kill herself; That which is now outlawed. He swallows as he looks down at Jacqueline. He's infinitely better at this now, and she's fallen into a gentle gurgling slumber in his arms. He says a silent prayer for Paula, and then for little Jacky, whom he hopes will share nothing with her Grandmother except her name.

It's two weeks before Paula reappears at his front door, head bowed and expression frosty. She comes to collect her baby, and they make the exchange almost wordlessly, the air between them solemn and cold. They both understand that this is what must happen, has been agreed, and is the most natural course of action. They both push demons to the back of their minds, letting feelings remain unvoiced, and trying not to let themselves think of the baby as the cause of this; Trying not to see an angelic innocent as the final wedge between a Father and a Daughter.

* * *

2014.

Jac is dozing. She'd be asleep but her body is on hyper alert, determined to remain aware of her surroundings and sensitive to intruders. Her right arm is draped across the cot by the bed and her hand rests gently against the blanket, close enough to remain aware of the gentle rise and fall of her daughter's chest. She's exhausted, but never more convinced that she could stay awake forever, listening to her baby breathe.

The door opens with a creak, and she's surprised by the weight of her eyelids as she looks up to find out the identity of the visitor. "Happy New Year!" Then, "can I come in?" Jac relaxes again and smiles, nodding at the familiar voice. Mo creeps right up beside the bed, her heart warmed by the scene before her. Jac's lips turn upwards at the corners, even though it's clear she can barely keep her eyes open, and the natural smile suits her.

"Have you seen Jonny?" She'd banished him to find coffee a little while ago, when he'd started losing the ability to stand.

"Out for the count across a whole row of plastic chairs. He actually drooled on the floor. Can't wake him. Jean Rimini's having kittens."

"Good. Witch." Mo snorts aloud at Jac's analysis and grins at their shared disdain for the woman, then leans in closer to her friend.

"You look a bit pale." Mo says gently, eyeing her pincushion of a forearm and the concoction of drugs and fluids that she's on to replace the blood loss.

"It got a bit complicated." Jac offers by way of explanation. "I'm fine." She's compelled to assure the woman, and it feels strange to say the words when she means them. She takes her eyes off the cot to look up at Mo and gauge a reaction, then scoffs. Mo is dressed for the New Year, complete with novelty cowboy hat and tinsel wound around her neck. "Did a glitterball throw up on you?" She adds with a raised eyebrow. Mo only laughs.

"I was at the taxi rank when I got Jonny's text. I came straight here." She's referring to the, 'It's a girl' round robin that had been fired off to most of his phonebook, including a Chinese takeaway restaurant and his local taxi firm. Jac smiles and her eyes feel hot with a fresh wave of unstable emotion. Mo is observing her with honest eyes, those of a loyal friend who's excited to share this moment with her, and not just out of duty because she's the Mother of her best friend's baby.

"Go on then." Jac whispers, indicating the little bundle who's staring up at the new face with an inquisitive expression.

"What, really?"

"Yes." Mo looks uneasy.

"What if I make her cry?"

"She's a baby. She's supposed to cry."

Mo is unspeakably nervous. For somebody with a never ending extended family she has scarcely any experience of holding babies, let alone newborns. She holds her breath as she reaches into the cot, aware that she's the subject of Jac's trance like fatigued gaze, which heaps a great responsibility on her shoulders. Her fingers find their way carefully around the blanket and she brings it up, firmly supporting the head, an inch at a time, determined not to disturb the sleeping angel. The baby makes a squeak, an appreciative sort of gurgle, as Mo draws the bundle into her body and shares her warmth.

"Hello Baby. I've been waiting to meet you. I've watched you grow and grow inside your Mum's tum all year long, and now you're here! And you're a gorgeous little girl. Guess what that means? It means Uncle Elliot owes Auntie Mo a fiver. Yes it does." She pauses and looks back to the woman in the bed, ready for the inevitable raised eyebrow and sarcastic garb, but she receives neither.

Jac Naylor is fast asleep. And the 1st January 2014 is only the beginning.


End file.
